her, but only if she will have him. In the meantime, Hannah will escape prostitution, and he will remain her lover.
Hannah tells Sedgeworth that she never knew her father, who died before she was born. One day she would like him to meet her mother, who she is very close to. It would be safest to introduce him as her backer, rather than her lover, as her mother has no idea what she really does in London. Later, when his wife dies, the couple can say that their romantic relationship began shortly afterwards. Sedgeworth agrees to this charade.
I already had too much plot for a short story, I realised, though not enough for a novel. People would assume that this was why Greene didn’t proceed with the piece. After working out the ending, I pared the piece down and practised Greene’s metaphors. Greene’s wife, Vivien, used to go through his work, removing what she called ‘tigers in the woodpile’, that is, overblown imagery that cheapened the story. I did the same.
There were other details I had to get right. I found a ribbon that more or less fitted the old typewriter, though it slipped occasionally.There were plenty of blank sheets of manuscript paper scattered among the papers in the archive, and it was easy enough to find a dozen that seemed to match. Indeed, I was left with a number of spares, which I would put to good use in due course.
Only when I was very sure of what I had written did I get out the old typewriter. I copied the piece out, making the odd improvement as I went along, taking care to use the same layout as Greene in the genuine story I’d seen.
When I was done, I left my story spread out by a window for a couple of days, hoping the sun would age it. Ten days after I’d begun, I read the story again. Finding no errors, I took a deep breath, then went down to show it to Tony.
‘Where was this?’ he asked as he glanced at the MS.
‘In an unmarked box-file upstairs.’
‘Which issue was it in?’
‘It was never published. I checked the index.’ (An index of the LR ’s first two hundred issues had been published in the 60s.)
Tony took the story to read on the old leather armchair in the corner, shifting a pile of books so that he could sit there. I dealt with the minor correspondence, making as little noise as possible. From time to time, I glanced in his direction. Had I got the ending right? As the shop opens, Sedgeworth’s wife suddenly dies. He is free to be with his mistress. But when he turns up, unexpectedly, to tell Hannah the news, her mother is there on a visit. Hannah introduces Sedgeworth as her sponsor. The mother, who is Sedgeworth’s age but beaten down and dishevelled, is warm with him and exhibits no suspicion of his motives. Sedgeworth is sure she will accept his marrying Hannah. He can’t wait to get his mistress alone so that he can tell her his news.
But it’s the mother who manages to get Sedgeworth alone. While Hannah is downstairs, seeing a customer, her mother hugs Sedgeworth, and tells her how grateful she is to him. But how, she wants to know, did he find out about Hannah? James Sedgeworth has no idea what she means. I didn’t know how to contact you, Jim, the mother tells him. How did you know she was yours?
Sedgeworth at last understands. Hannah’s mother is a factory girl he had a brief fling with twenty-three years earlier. Her daughter is also his. Perhaps the filial resemblance is the reason for his tremendous attraction to her.
‘You were always a gent’, the mother tells him, as he bluffs his way through the situation.
James and Hannah see the mother to the train back to Nottwich. As they leave St Pancras, James Sedgeworth tells Hannah that his wife needs constant attention. He will not be able to visit his lover for a long time. He wants her to see other men. Hannah is hurt and confused. Sedgeworth leaves her at the station, in tears. In the last line, he returns to his empty house.
Tony put down the story.
‘I don’t remember this at
Hannah tells Sedgeworth that she never knew her father, who died before she was born. One day she would like him to meet her mother, who she is very close to. It would be safest to introduce him as her backer, rather than her lover, as her mother has no idea what she really does in London. Later, when his wife dies, the couple can say that their romantic relationship began shortly afterwards. Sedgeworth agrees to this charade.
I already had too much plot for a short story, I realised, though not enough for a novel. People would assume that this was why Greene didn’t proceed with the piece. After working out the ending, I pared the piece down and practised Greene’s metaphors. Greene’s wife, Vivien, used to go through his work, removing what she called ‘tigers in the woodpile’, that is, overblown imagery that cheapened the story. I did the same.
There were other details I had to get right. I found a ribbon that more or less fitted the old typewriter, though it slipped occasionally.There were plenty of blank sheets of manuscript paper scattered among the papers in the archive, and it was easy enough to find a dozen that seemed to match. Indeed, I was left with a number of spares, which I would put to good use in due course.
Only when I was very sure of what I had written did I get out the old typewriter. I copied the piece out, making the odd improvement as I went along, taking care to use the same layout as Greene in the genuine story I’d seen.
When I was done, I left my story spread out by a window for a couple of days, hoping the sun would age it. Ten days after I’d begun, I read the story again. Finding no errors, I took a deep breath, then went down to show it to Tony.
‘Where was this?’ he asked as he glanced at the MS.
‘In an unmarked box-file upstairs.’
‘Which issue was it in?’
‘It was never published. I checked the index.’ (An index of the LR ’s first two hundred issues had been published in the 60s.)
Tony took the story to read on the old leather armchair in the corner, shifting a pile of books so that he could sit there. I dealt with the minor correspondence, making as little noise as possible. From time to time, I glanced in his direction. Had I got the ending right? As the shop opens, Sedgeworth’s wife suddenly dies. He is free to be with his mistress. But when he turns up, unexpectedly, to tell Hannah the news, her mother is there on a visit. Hannah introduces Sedgeworth as her sponsor. The mother, who is Sedgeworth’s age but beaten down and dishevelled, is warm with him and exhibits no suspicion of his motives. Sedgeworth is sure she will accept his marrying Hannah. He can’t wait to get his mistress alone so that he can tell her his news.
But it’s the mother who manages to get Sedgeworth alone. While Hannah is downstairs, seeing a customer, her mother hugs Sedgeworth, and tells her how grateful she is to him. But how, she wants to know, did he find out about Hannah? James Sedgeworth has no idea what she means. I didn’t know how to contact you, Jim, the mother tells him. How did you know she was yours?
Sedgeworth at last understands. Hannah’s mother is a factory girl he had a brief fling with twenty-three years earlier. Her daughter is also his. Perhaps the filial resemblance is the reason for his tremendous attraction to her.
‘You were always a gent’, the mother tells him, as he bluffs his way through the situation.
James and Hannah see the mother to the train back to Nottwich. As they leave St Pancras, James Sedgeworth tells Hannah that his wife needs constant attention. He will not be able to visit his lover for a long time. He wants her to see other men. Hannah is hurt and confused. Sedgeworth leaves her at the station, in tears. In the last line, he returns to his empty house.
Tony put down the story.
‘I don’t remember this at
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